Fallout: A Tale of Two Traders
by The Stranger In The Raincoat
Summary: A trader and his caravan guard trek across the wasteland, picking up the pieces of a shattered world and encountering the perils that this new world presents.
1. The Wasteland

"Stupid fucking thing..."

Wilson tapped on the glass front of the device, to no avail. He had been tinkering with the device for about an hour. He glanced down at the logo below the screen, a proud announcement that he was in possession of a 'PIP Boy 3000.' A disdainful thought along the lines of 'what have they got to be proud of' ran through his mind. In frustration, he bashed the glorified wristwatch on the dusty earth, in the vain hope that it might spark into life. Its dull black screen remained unresponsive however. 'That must be why he didn't make it' thought Wilson, as he recalled the image of the solitary vault dweller, sprawled out on the cracked soil, bullet wounds straight through his chest.

"You know, the bullets entered the body from his back. That means the poor sod was running from something."

Wilson turned his head sharply and watched Roscoe, his hired caravan guard, as he polished and cleaned his shotgun. Roscoe cocked his head up, and met Wilson's eye. 'Maybe it was his instincts,' thought Wilson. Roscoe had an uncanny knack for saying what Wilson was thinking. It was a fact that Wilson had got used to; on one hand it made him feel uneasy, as if his mind was not his own, but open to others, on the other hand it comforted him to know that there was another in the wasteland who thought like him, with whom he shared a bond.

"Yeah...probably. Probably raiders. Sadistic bastards."

"He paid the price for naivety. What do you expect from a vault kid with only a busted PIP Boy and a .32 to his name?"

"I suppose so..."

Roscoe put his shotgun down and focused on Wilson, his dark eyes intently scrutinising Wilson's attempts to hotwire the PIP Boy.

"Why are you still bothering with that?" It's not gonna keep you alive."

Wilson half ignored him, and pressed on in his efforts.

"It's interesting. Interesting to know what sort of gear the boffins at Vault-Tec gave those vault dwellers, and who knows what could be on this thing. This is what I do. I'm a scavenger. We're scavengers.

"_I'm _a killer. And the only thing that's on that is dust and pre-war techno babble. Come on, if you want to make it to the next trading stop, we have to go now."

Wilson signed resignedly, and tucked the PIP Boy inside one of the pockets on his brahmin's pack. Without a word, he whipped the brahmin's behind with a twig, and the ungainly beast stumbled on its way, the two men in tow.


	2. Dustbowl

The journey itself was rather uneventful. 'As long as Roscoe doesn't have to pull that trigger, it's been an alright trip,' thought Wilson. It was not a dangerous road they were travelling; on their circular route, they came across this patch once every three weeks, and never had anything more eventful than an encounter with a mole rat, or a Brahmin driven crazy by lack of water and bloatfly attacks.

"There it is, right on cue," declared Roscoe.

Wilson looked from the enthralling view of the ends of his shoes, and caught sight of the outpost, the word 'Dustbowl' emblazoned on its side. The construction itself jutted out of the flat landscape angrily; a rickety stack of metal, car bonnets and corrugated iron that served as the entrance and lookout tower for the merchant town of Dustbowl.

Dustbowl itself was formed from a crater, one over a kilometre across. At some point, an atom bomb dropped during those hellish hours back in 2077 had fallen into a crevasse, wherein it had detonated and cleaned out a perfect hemisphere. Indeed, the only way in was by the long, winding ramp that went round half the edge of Dustbowl, from the outpost/entrance to the bottom. From the crater's rim, one could look down and gaze over the town itself at the bottom; a tight cluster of tented stalls and makeshift wooden buildings, a veritable bazaar that had springs up whenever enough traders get together and settle down to find customers.

"Hoy! Wilson! Roscoe! Get on over here! "

The men trudged the final hundred metres to the outpost, and saw the figure of a great hulk of a man, dark as if he had been sweating oil, grinning widely at them.

"Grit! How's the desert been treating you?"

Wilson knew Grit, the guard headman, well, having travelled the trader route for many years.

"Oh well, you know, not bad. No troublemakers, so I'm happy."

Wilson glanced to his side for a moment, and noticed that Roscoe was entirely focused on the terrible looking contraption, the six barrelled monstrosity that hung from Grit's shoulder. Wilson gave him a little kick, to bring him out of his trance.

"What, um...what is that thing? Where d'you find it?"

"Haha! This beauty? She's what they call a 'minigun.' A big baggage train of traders dropped by three days ago, said they'd cleaned out an old military depot due south. Had a lot of interesting stuff on them."

Wilson nodded, bade Grit farewell, and, after giving Roscoe another kick, set off down the dusty slope to Dustbowl proper.

The bottom of the crater was a fascinating place to be, despite the conditions; No wind really made it into Dustbowl, and its shape focused the heat of the wasteland sun to its centre. Still, Wilson enjoyed the stalls, full of unexpected treasures, trinkets and oddities from a lost world. Wilson marched his brahmin to an empty stall and began putting his wares on the table.

No sooner had he done so, that across Dustbowl, the rough, dry voice of Grit came hollering,

"RAIDERS!"


	3. Raider Assault

A surge of adrenaline burst through Wilson's body as he heard Grit's yell. He turned to where Roscoe was standing only to find that he had already gone. He caught sight of him sprinting up the ramp, shotgun in hand, his long legs pumping furiously. Wilson fumbled at his hip and retrieved his 10mm, then gave chase.

He joined the rest of the traders and caravan guards as they thundered up the hill, around thirty in all, kicking up the dust as they went. As Wilson neared the outpost, he could hear more clearly the ring, snap and whiz of bullets as they impacted the crude fortification. A stray shot flew past his head, missing him by about a foot, and pierced the skull of the woman beside him, casting aside a shower of crimson gore and sundering her head. The gravitas of her death was lost rapidly in the dust however, and Wilson was given no chance to dwell on it. Cresting the ramp, he hurled himself behind what had once been a dumpster lid, and found himself next to Grit.

"Pleasure to see you again," cackled Grit, before spitting a great glob of chewing tobacco into the earth.

"How can you be so calm in a situation like this," panted Wilson, his hair matted down with sweat and panic. He had faced raiders before, several times, but he never got used to the idea of being in mortal danger. He could shoot straight, but always found his aim gripped by fear. Roscoe was in that respect his only hope in wasteland combat.

"Eh, you get used to it. Besides, I wouldn't be in the guarding business if a few raiders made me duck and cover. But as you can see, I'm pinned at the moment. Not much my gun can do without a chance to get her spinning."

"Wait a minute; I might have something for that."

Wilson stuffed his hand into one of the pockets of his old military jacket, and after a moment of searching, pulled out a dusty and unreliable looking grenade.

"On my mark; one, two, three!"

Wilson poked his chest above the metal wall, ripped out the pin, and unleashed the weapon onto the raiders, who were in deep cover behind a cluster of large rocks. The grenade whirled silently through the air, and disappeared behind the rocky outcrop. A second passed, and then a brilliant flash of light and a blast of flame erupted from the raiders' position. Blood trailed through the air behind dismembered, splintered limbs. Legs, arms and torsos hit the ground with a dull thud. The raiders who had been lucky enough to escape the blast scattered from their defensive positions into the open, many more than there were traders and guards. Some were taken down quickly by random shots from the Dustbowl residents in the outpost, most however attempted what appeared to be a last ditch charge.

"You ain't going nowhere!"

Wilson wheeled his head round, away from the carnage and saw Grit, standing at full height, with his minigun trained on the largest concentration of raiders. Wilson saw the six barrels begin to spin, and for a second, it whirred quietly. Then hell broke loose.

The sound was deafening. Wilson had heard thunderstorms, but it could not compare to the roar of the terrifying weapon. To him, all he could perceive was the harsh metallic scream of the gun. He couldn't hear the guns of the other Dustbowl residents, or the laughter of Grit, though he could tell he was; mouth open wide, eyes scrunched, chest quaking with every guffaw. The raiders on the wrong end of the minigun were dead in seconds. Eviscerated by lightning fast gunfire, men were split in half in an instant, legs and torsos separated by reams of 5mm bullets. Intestines and organs spilled onto the unclean earth, and the blood soaked through into the soil. Wilson could just make out their faces, each a twisted and shattered rictus full of pain and hate. Skulls were hewn in two mercilessly, and their humanity spewed out onto the unforgiving wasteland.

The majority of the raiders were gunned down, but a few, perhaps five or seven, made it round the side. Drawing knives, piping, baseball bats and even wooden clubs, these last few wildmen Made a desperate assault on the outpost. Grit didn't have time to turn his minigun around, and before the traders knew it, the raiders had leapt over the low metal detritus that composed the Dustbowl outpost and were letting loose their weapons.

Crumbling under the pressure, Wilson struggled to reload, clicked the new magazine in, and his aim round to be greeted by the sight of an angry raider. A bruise defined his gaunt, Hispanic face, his teeth had been sharpened to points, and his hair was drawn up into intimidating spikes. Blood oozed from his split lip, and gave him a completely bloodthirsty, manic look. He raised his right fist, crowned with a set of spiked brass knuckles, and he cackled dementedly.

The fist never came down however. Wilson had shielded himself with his arms, and consequently only heard a loud blast from nearby. He looked quickly up to see the raider still there, missing his head. The bloody stump coughed up some gore for a moment, and then flopped down to the ground. Wilson turned to where the blast had come from, and met the gaze of Roscoe, shotgun in hand, barrel still smouldering.

"You can pay me back for that later," remarked Roscoe, acknowledging Wilson with a curt nod.

Wilson nodded weakly back, before inspecting the scene around him. All the assaulting raiders were dead. The few that had not joined the charge were still just visible on the dusty horizon. Around the outpost, the number of dead raiders and traders was almost equal. The surviving traders and guards had begun to descend the ramp, or loot the bodies of the raiders.

"So, how you boys doing?"

Wilson felt Grit's meaty hand clamp down on his shoulder.

"Ah, fine I suppose. Cut and bruised, but it's nothing a few meds and a beer can't cure."

"That's what I like to hear. In fact, I think I'll join you in the last part of that 'medicinal care'," Grit chuckled.

Wilson turned to face Roscoe.

"You doing alright Ros?"

"Just hacked off that I had to waste shells on those lowlifes."

Wilson smiled inside at Roscoe's business-like attitude to the day's slaughter; 'glad to know he's on my side.'

Stepping over the broken bodies, the three men began the trudge back into Dustbowl.


	4. Author's Notes

**Introduction**

This chapter is a short divergence from the storyline, but is designed to provide a little flavour for you, the reader. It has been suggested to me by a peer that I go into more detail regarding my characters' back stories and appearances, and also regarding the setting of the story; time, location, etc. While generally I am opposed to this because I feel that the reader has the right to imagine the setting and characters for themselves without being corrupted by forced descriptions, I have relented here and so will describe in detail what I see when I think of Wilson, Roscoe, Grit, and the general setting of my story. Consider any of this that is not specifically mentioned in the story as non canon, but as flavour material. Here we go.

**Setting**

Fallout: A Tale of Two Traders is of course set in the Fallout universe, in the wasteland of America following the two hour world war of 2077. Its set a little east of California and Nevada, in Arizona or New Mexico perhaps. I reckon that it takes place around there because I identify more with the desert-like wasteland of Fallouts 1&2, rather than the more Savannah like, hilly and countryside-like Capital Wasteland. It takes place some time after the bombs fell; late enough that some of the Vaults (the normal, 'control' Vaults, or the even some of the defective ones) have opened and the ordinary wastelanders are aware of their existence, late enough that enough traders have gathered to create mercantile communities, but still too early for real factions beyond the Brotherhood of Steel to have emerged. The New Californian Republic, for example is still some way off. I estimate the year to be around 2095; several Vaults, including the well known Vault 8 (Vault City) are open, and trader communities are prevalent. Whilst many buildings and locations are nearly inaccessible due to the bombing, some are still open, and contain pre-war material that has not degraded much in the twenty years since the war.

**Characters**

Wilson

Wilson is a wizened, windswept, middle aged man. His hair was blonde, but over the years it has since greyed. His face is a premature mass of wrinkles, likely brought on by harsh living conditions and stress. He has also been known to smoke, another contributing factor to his looks. He is averagely built, but is generally physically fit for a man of his age. He stands about 5'10'', but a slight slouch developed by hard work and heavy lifting has reduced him to a short 5'8''. He has been trading for about twenty years, starting pretty much immediately after the war. He seems to be about 40 to 42, not too old for work in the wasteland, but old enough to have seen it all. He was born before the war, and lived about half his life in the pre-war age. He doesn't like to speak about it. It is not yet known if he survived the war with anyone, or even how he survived. He may be a former vault dweller; his interest in the PIP Boy could allude to that. As seen by his behaviour in chapter 3, he isn't a fighter. His aim is competent enough, but there is something about the heat of battle that grips his heart and squeezes it in an iron fist. It is in that respect that he relies on Roscoe. His identity as a scavenger suggests that despite his old life is 20 years gone, he still clings to it, and refuses to move on to the reality of the world.

Roscoe

A caravan guard by trade, Roscoe is a young man born in the heat of battle. He is about 22, also born before the war, though he has no memory of the pre-war age. An athletic man, he is about 5'11'', and stands bolt upright, giving him an air of attentiveness and awareness of his surroundings. His rounds, bronze face and small eyes suggest Hispanic origins, but Wilson has never asked. A thin scrap of facial hair gives him a slightly softer edge, despite being only a charcoal black thin moustache and a soul patch. Like Wilson, he doesn't mention his early life often, though that could be because he was just a baby when the bombs fell. Again, it is not known how he survived the war, but Wilson has speculated that he spent the days before and after October 23rd holed up in a military depot, for all his love of guns and killing machines. He originally met Wilson in a bar in a trader community, where Wilson employed him as a caravan guard. After getting each other out of several bad situations, the two became firm friends. Indeed, Wilson does not give Roscoe a standard salary, but instead they share their fortune. Ultimately, it is Roscoe's combat aptitude that makes him valuable to Wilson, just as it is Wilson's contacts in the trader community that make him helpful to Roscoe.

Grit

A towering hulk of a man, Grit is the chief of the Dustbowl guards. Measuring a grand 6'5'' and built like a brick shithouse, Grit keeps Dustbowl safe. He is estimated to be around 30 years old, but by his own admission it is uncertain. He claims to have travelled far to reach Dustbowl and its part of the world, and he certainly doesn't look local. Dark skinned not just through the sun, Grit appears to be of Persian heritage. Completely bald, Grit takes great pride in his facial hair, a mat of black fuzz on his chin connected to his lower lip by a strip of thick stubble. Never seen in more than a tank top, baggy military trousers and boots, he is often found either cleaning the many guns in his armoury in the Dustbowl outpost, scanning the horizon for approaching threats, or in and among the Dustbowl stalls.

I hope that those of you who wanted greater detail are sated, but by all means remember that this is non canon, and is merely my interpretation. Please make the characters what you want them to be. The next chapter is on its way; I intend for it to be a setting up chapter, following the action heavy third instalment. Please review, and thanks for reading!


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